Dog HillFrom the series: Life on Dog Hill

I recently returned home after four days and more than 1,300 miles on a soccer road trip with two of my sons. It was just after 4:00 a.m. when we pulled into the drive. I’d insisted on driving overnight because I had to get the kids back to school. Missing one day of school for this tournament was enough.

I let the boys out in the drive and pulled into the garage to park. A minute later, they’re lumbering past me toward the interior garage door.

“Front door locked?” I asked in surprise since everyone knew we were expected home in the wee hours.

“Yep,” they echoed, trying the garage door and finding it locked as well. “Do you have a key?”

“Negative,” I answered. “I can hardly keep up with the car fob. You got a key?” I asked hopefully.

Loud knocking on the door was my answer. Dogs barked, and moments later we heard someone yelling for us to wait.

My husband opened the door, welcomed us home and turned to go back up the stairs to bed. The boys followed while I grabbed my bag and closed the garage door.

“I am NOT sleeping in my room tonight,” Ryan said, meeting me at the stairs.

“Why not?” I asked, guessing at the answer. “Is there dog poop in there?”

Ryan didn’t respond but followed me to the top of the stairs. I looked into his room to see the floor covered in dog bombs.

“Seriously?” I asked in disbelief as my husband poked his head back out of the bedroom. I looked at him with disdain. “Seriously?” I asked again. “There must be twenty dog poops in there!”

“I didn’t know!” he said.

“What do you mean you didn’t know! You didn’t know that dogs have to go outside to do their business? Give me a frigging break!” I said, anger boiling up. Then, realizing I was just too tired to care, I told Ryan to get his jams on and climb in bed with us.

When I got up the next morning to make sure the kids got off to school, I was equally disappointed with the kitchen.

“I cooked twice while you were gone,” my husband said. “And you thought I wouldn’t feed the boys.” He chuckled at his joke.

“I can see by the dirty pots and pans still on the stove that you cooked,” I retorted.

“I’m pretty sure Serg cleaned the kitchen once,” my husband said, in a weak defense.

“Really? He cleaned the kitchen once in four days? And what did you and Nate do? Watch?” I asked.

“We missed you a lot,” he added.


I’m a strong believer that a family that cleans house together stays together. So I’m making a “to-do” list, and it’s non-negotiable. It starts with shampooing the carpet because picking up the dog poo and flushing it down the pot is just not enough.

Gentlemen, beware… Momma’s home and she’s not happy!

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